A Night Like No Other
by tasha.vick
Summary: Sequel to 'A Wedding Like Any Other'. What happens after the church? Warning: dark themes, self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

John sat back in the cab taking him back to 221b. Back. Finally, he thought. He always knew this would be the only way it could end, even if his delusional, scared, sorrow-filled mind didn't.

He had always waited for this particular dawning, it was a fantasy in which he used imagination as a device of colouring the gray of his days while he healed others and their wounds with kindness.

Subconsciously, he always knew this would happen. And that he would do anything it took for that one drop of sentiment, even if it were small enough to fit in his palm. He wants now to feel warm rain, a few more wild mint-scented kisses, a meeting with the one also alone for so long.

His heart shuddered at the memory of the horrid black and white dreams he kept having, hoping they would turn technicolor now. He wants the world in a multitude of nuances, he wants never to be a stranger to himself again. And he was on his way to achieving it. Life was strange. And for once, he loved the feeling.

* * *

Sherlock had been at he flat for almost five hours now. He knew John would need time to talk to Mary so he made his excuses with the guests, as awkwardly as only Sherlock Holmes could, told Harry to let John know where he would be and left.

But five hours? He was pacing furiosly to and from the door, his thoughts all over the place. He knew John said Mary could say nothing to sway his decision, but still, one could never be sure.

The clenching feeling in his chest was back and he gripped desperately at the constricting material of his dress shirt, finally tearing it open, some buttons clunking to the floor. He felt only marginally better. For about thirty seconds. Therewas an odd sensation hovering inches away from his chest, closing in. And when it did, he had no words in that brilliant head of his to explain it, but simply tried to endure. The lack of air attacked his lungs, and he had to brace himself against the table, and slowly slide to the floor in a wobbly heap.

Somehow he managed to cross his legs and steeple his palms underneath his chin in imitation of his usual thinking pose. Only this time it only served as a position in which he felt most comfortable, less likely to pass out in.

Minutes ticked by and he felt the panic ebb and flow, ebb and flow until it finally dissipated. And then he finally found himself upright, looking at the yellow smiley face on the wallpaper. Without a moment's thought, he charged at the plaster with his fist clenched, slamming his knuckles against the hard material. The action left a considerable dent in the wall, and a flow of blood surrounded by bruises on his delicate, yet strong hand. The pain was a passing thought, he could barely feel it as the adrenaline and fear of being abandoned coursed through his veins. He breathed deeply, thankful Mrs Hudson was most probably still with John and Harry at the church. It simply wouldn't do for anyone, least of all her, to have witnessed this breakdown. He looked down, the scarlet liquid flowing from the cuts on his skin, and he grabbed a nearby kitchen cloth, absentmindedly wrapping his bleeding fist with it.

He'd come to the inevitable conclusion. John's moment of weakness was over and he was going with the more stable, normal and responsible course of things. Mary. Not that Sherlock could blame him. He saw the reasoning, even if it felt like acid in his gut.

But, then he saw reasoning in what he knew should be **_his_** next step. His eyes focused on hs friend on the mantle. Well, when he says friend…He knew the insides were not as hollow as always. Out of sentiment he'd used the same hiding place for his heroin stash as John did when he hid his Marlboro's. Well, no hiding anymore. He strode casually over to the object and pulled out the metal case out. When he opened it, his eyes shone bright with expectation. Only this time, unlike all his previous others, it wasn't a giddy kind of excitement. No, it was a sorrow-filled acceptance of a death that needed to be done. And swiftly. The long, slender fingers of is uninjured hand wound tightly around the case, he sauntered to his room. Might as well be comfortable, he thought as he sat down on his bed and rolled up his sleeve. Here goes everything.

* * *

John was a mere three blocks away from the flat when he felt a stabbing jolt of pain in his shoulder, right where his scar was. That was funny, it never bothered him before, not since before he met Sherlock. As time went by and the trafic thickened for some reason, the pain seemed to be getting worse. With this sensation came another. A premonition. John wasn't one to believe in such things, but…he couldn't' even explain it to himself.

''I'm sorry, could you hurry up, please, only I have somewhere to be really soon?''

He wasn't deaf to the tone of extreme irritation in his voice and the cabbie simply shrugged.

''Sorry, mate, seems there was an accident of some sort. It's gonna be awhile. Just one of those days, I guess.''

John cursed out loud and the driver flinched. John paid no heed to the man as he flung some money at him before stepping out of the car, immediately beginning to sprint towards 221b, his good arm clutching his shoulder.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

John's heart was in his throat, his lungs felt like they were on fire. The pain in his shoulder now serving only as an indicator of danger, he ignored it for the sake of speeding up his already furious pace, and skidded to a halt at the front door of his old flat in a matter of seconds.

He sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

''Sherlock! Sherlock!''

He was frantic by this point and the fact that he was getting no reply from the other man was only making it worse.

Finally, he tried the door to Sherlock's room. As he turned the handle, he shut his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Which did nothing to prepare him for what he saw inside.

* * *

''Mycroft!''

The older Holmes brother answered on the first ring, worry apparent in his response, even though he tried to hide it as he always did.

''A private ambulance is on its way,John.''

John didn't even have to say what occurred. He assumed, somewhere in his panic and worry-addled brain that Mycroft had seen, via his multitudinous cameras in 221 what Sherlock was about to do and had already taken action.

''John…John speak to me. Have you stabilized his breathing?''

Any other words Mycroft may have uttered were lost on John as he picked Sherlock up and ran down the stairs with the reed-thin man firmly in his arms. He saw the tinted-windows mercedes pull up and two men and a doctor helped Sherlock in.

* * *

It was…surreal to say the least. As the final minutes of dusk crept their way in through the semi-open curtains of the hospital room, John sat back in the chair which was placed next to Sherlock's bed. The younger man was hooked to every machine possible. A respirator, an IV drip, an EKG monitor which emitted an annoying yet oh so reassuring sound of the man's heart…they all served their given purpose.

And an added one. The sight and sound of them reminded John Watson that he was the one to blame. How could he not think?! Was that too much to ask? Sherlock was right, he was always right. '_'Think, John, think!''_, is what he would say every time the doctor knew he was missing a particularly important detail. And Sherlock's frailty…John was too blind, and too wrapped up in his own guilt and hapiness to observe. Oh, he saw alright, saw that he finally had the one he wanted with him, saw the life he wanted mapped out in front of him, but did he observe Sherlock's insecurity? Note the tremble in his voice or the ache and longing as they parted at the church? Five bloody hours he was away. Yes, it needed to be done, but…why couldn't he have just rang…

His self-punishing thoughts were cut short at the sound of Sherlock's body moving and his heart rate picking up. John , immediately alert, grabbed the younger man's hand and whispered soothingly.

''Calm down, Sherlock, it's okay, you're in the hospital, you're safe. You're with me.''

How utterly empty the words sounded to John. Safe? With him of all people? The one on whose shoulders to put the entire blame for his current condition? Right. But they needed to be said, for Sherlock's sake, John knew this, and let the love he held for this man flow freely from his soul.

Without calling the nurses, he was able to extract the breathing tube out of Sherlock's throat, as it was obvious to a professional such as himself that he was indeed awake and responding ot extrenal stimuli. No damage to the brain, John was relieved to realize. As Sherlock coughed up air and tried to swallow, John brought a cup of water to his lips.

''Sip, it'll make you feel better. Slowly.''

He was in doctor mode now, not allowing his emotions to surface. But, as always, his body betrayed him and he could feel the fire-like liquid gather in the corners of his tired eyes. Sherlock looked at him, then away, looking lost, alone and empty. John felt it like a punch in the stomach with a broken bottle shard.

''Sherlock…''

_''Don't.''_

Sherlock's voice was coming in raspy, slightly hushed tones, due to the breathign tube being jammed down his throat for hours, but he continued despite the pain it was causing him.

''Don't_ pitty_ me.''

With a bitter emphasis on the word pitty, he turned as indignantly as he could in his bed and faced away from John. The former soldier had a flashback of the man doing this so many times before when he was in a sulk, bored, or simply…emotionally distressed. He didn't need a brain surgeon to figure out which one it was this time. Good ol' self-defense mechanism at work again.

''Sherlock, I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. And don't even try and pretend you're not because I know you're not asleep, and you can't shut down that big central nervous system of yours even if you tried. And in case you hadn't noticed, you just tried. And thankfully…failed.''

John's voice shook at the thought of being too late. Although, he supposed it was Mycroft he really had to thank for rescuing Sherlock from an overdose.

''You will never, I repeat, **_never_ **do such a thing again, Sherlock.''

Sherlock moved his shoulders in a manner similar to snorting.

'' You annoying git…I…You know, this is what you do, you leave me speechless no matter what you do. And god help me, Sherlock, that's why I love you. But like I said, if you do something like this ever again, should you succeed, I make a solemn promise, right here and now. Listen to me._ I will follow you_. I was near doing it once, and if it wasn't for Harry I'd have bloody well made it. So if the thought of taking anything or doing something to end your life ever crosses your mind again…I **_will_** follow.''

Sherlock's head snapped back to Joh and John could see his universe-colored spheres spark with fear. Something in his core told him he'd hit the right nerve and was going to play that card for all it was worth.

''Jphn…''

''No. I'm talking now. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have left you all alone for so long, I should at least called. I shouldn't have let you draw your own conclusions. Wrong conclusions, for once. I mean, how could you possibly think me so fickle in how I feel for you? And the question was rhetorical, you prat, before you consider answering it.''

Sherlock smiled at that a little and let John continue.

''I'm sorry.I let you down. It will never happen again. And given your impulsive nature, I know it's too much to hope for you returning the favor, which is alright by me. But for the major things, like…sentiment and…addiction…and fear…you need to talk to me so we can figure it out together. We are partners aren't we?''

The insecure lilt in the tone of John's voice jolted Sherlock from his half-reverie and he sat up straight in his bed, quickly grabbing hold of the other man's hand for physical and moral support.

''Yes, we are. For as long as you want us to be. And you haven't let me down. I just…you know me John. I don't do sentiment. It's all so new to me, the very thought of having had you for a few minutes, of having felt what it would be like, and then imagining you being with Mary when you didn't come home after I left…It was too much. I realize that my rational self should have stepped in, but…I find myself completely disarmed and scatter-brained when the matters of the heart are concerned.''

His fingers entwined further with those of the man he loved.

''And as a fiend of a man we both knew once insinuated quite clearly…you, John Watson, are my heart.''

John couldn't contain himself any longer so he sat down on the bed, having moved from the chair and placed his free hand on Sherlock's cheek, running the pad of his thumb in soothing motions around the darkness underneath the beautiful eyes and the impossibly prominent cheek bones. He was a man in love, and he knew how to prove it. He kissed him. Sherlock had never been kissed by anyone else before. And John knew he never wanted any man or woman as much as he wanted Sherlock. So, he just, let the action speak for itself. When they pulled apart, breathless and with pupils dilated, Sherlock swallowed nervously. Clearly, John had more convincing to partake in. He was looking forward to it. But first, he had to speak up again.

''I will never leave, Sherlock. No matter what you do. There are literally no things in my life I can guarantee will happen with a hundred percent certainty, but this…this I can give you. My word. Do you believe me?''

Sherlock nodded, all the while looking at John like he was the last puzzle in the world, a question as yet unanswered, and he realized one thing. It was one enigma he would always be fine with not solving. Because therein lie the core of Holmes and Watson. The endless run and thrush of heartbeats, sweaty palms and long-lost fears disappearing, all jumbled in a vicious circle. And both men would have it no other way.


End file.
